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Francis Filburn is the only son of the Gabriel Filburn - The legendary voice behind Freddy Fazbear himself, twice over. And having a famous dad? It's not all perks. For Francis, it’s been a curse wrapped in animatronic nostalgia. All he’s ever wanted was to walk in his father’s footsteps and make the man proud, maybe even earn a fraction of the spotlight Gabriel used to command. But so far? Nothing’s stuck. Even with custom Springlock suits built just for his own band, the gigs fizzle out. The venues want the next big thing, and Francis... well, he didn’t get his dad’s booming baritone or that magnetic stage presence that could freeze a room. He’s quieter, gentler, the kind of guy who lets Bon do the talking, or worse, lets Lewis take control. Lewis had that voice. He had presence. He could wrangle a crowd and keep the band from falling apart mid-show. Bon was the hustler, always chasing down leads, sniffing out open stages and new locations. Carmine and Flynn? They were in it for the ride, the suits, the thrill, the dream of touring the country with their best friends.
And Francis? Francis was living out of a goddamn truck.
Running a traveling animatronic band out of a glorified box on wheels sounds cool until you’re knee-deep in oil fumes, trying to sleep on a cold metal floor while praying the wiring doesn’t catch fire. Lewis actually liked sleeping in the truck, which somehow made it worse. The others crashed in a battered minivan they’d nicknamed the Soccer Mom Special. The whole thing was barely holding together — duct tape, debt, and dumb optimism. Every dollar they made went straight into repairs for their temperamental Springlock suits and ancient audio equipment. Everyone else saw it as an adventure! A scrappy, nomadic dream. But Francis? He carried a deep, gnawing shame. The occasional calls from his dad’s old colleagues helped a little, but Gabriel himself? He never reached out unless Francis made the first move. And every time his name lit up on the screen, Francis felt his stomach drop. Especially now, after his cousin had crushed records in his breakout role as Glamrock Freddy. The fans couldn’t care less about Francis’s little roadside rock band.
What’s he supposed to do? Go grovel at the Pizzaplex and ask his cousin for career advice? Does he just give up and cry to his dad that he failed!? Francis supposed to be older. Supposed to be the responsible one. Instead, he’s parked in a busted van, fifty bucks to his name, clinging to a dream he’s too afraid to let die and too ashamed to admit might already be dead! Every time they park up somewhere for the night he has to get out and cry on the side of the road just so he's physically exhausted enough to sleep. He was supposed to be having fun. That’s what everyone kept saying, that this was his dream. But the truth was colder than the dirt under his boots. The bills were stacked higher than the props and his family's disappointment hung heavier than any stage curtain. Maybe... maybe this was a dead end. Maybe he wasn’t cut out to be the next Freddy Fazbear. Hell, maybe he was just another broke guy in a suit, a second-rate performer chasing a fantasy no one believed in anymore. The others liked the suits well enough. They already left them in performer mode most nights, focusing on attractions that actually made money.
His heart was always ached. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. How the hell was he supposed to make this work when he was nothing but a burden. A stain on the Filburn name and the Fazbear legacy? He didn’t even go into the van tonight. Couldn’t. It felt like a coffin lately. He was suffocating in it, in this dream. Sometimes Bon would ask him what was wrong. Other times he’d shut down rehearsals just to prep the suits himself and give Francis space to breathe. But Francis always lied. Said he was fine. Said he had it handled. He cut corners, fixed everything himself, soldered and stitched until his fingers bled just to save a few bucks. His dad once told him to drop the music and just be a mechanic if he was going to live this broke.
Maybe his dad was right.
"Franny, come on. Get in the van. It's way too cold for one of your crisis naps." Bon leaned out of the driver’s side window, bundled up in a thick blanket with Carmine and Flynn already passed out in the back.
"I'm— I just need a few more minutes, alright? It’s kinda stuffy in there. I might crash with Lewis in the truck tonight."
"In that thing? With Lewis? The guy snores like he’s trying to start a lawnmower in his sleep."
Francis gave a half-hearted shrug. "Maybe he's right about the truck having decent acoustics."
Bon squinted at him for a beat, then sighed. "Whatever, man. Just don’t freeze out there," he muttered, rolling the window back up and settling in.
It can’t stay like this. There has to be a way to get the band the recognition it deserves—without leaning on his family's name. That was the whole point, right? Do it on their own terms. But now his friends were starting to notice the cracks—his jittery nerves, the way he kept slipping away when no one was looking. They’d even caught him shivering outside last night, pretending he just needed “fresh air.” Next stop was a carnival just outside of Hurricane. Flynn was calling it their “big break,” which didn’t mean much coming from a guy whose idea of a sure thing usually involved preforming at the most obscure and possibly dangerous locations... they still remember the graveyard incident but hey, once in a while, Flynn struck gold. This time it was one of those weird family gigs: tired parents dropping off their kids at a furry musical show with rides and small attractions so they could sneak off for a cutesy fun fair date. Not glamorous, but six hours of stage time? Balloons, a kiddie coaster, the prize box In their arsenal? It could be worse.
Francis wouldn’t even have to hide in the truck this time—he’d be running the whole setup, making sure everything stayed together. For once, he could be useful. Present. Barely visible.
As long as no one recognized him.
Which—okay, was a big if.
Makeup could cover the freckles. His skin was darker now, sun-bronzed from weeks of outdoor work. His hair, a little lighter, catching the sun in a way it never used to. He looked different. Enough? Maybe. Hopefully. Because if anyone who really knew him showed up… this whole thing could blow apart before it even began, he can't bare to be seen as a failure.